


As It Is Written

by dzzyondreams



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Domesticity, Fluff, M/M, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1193076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dzzyondreams/pseuds/dzzyondreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of Pete and Patrick's honeymoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As It Is Written

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XV prompts affection, honeymoon, epistolary. I took a modern take on the latter of those. This is unbetaed; feel free to point out any mistakes you see.

Patrick thinks he has a new favorite way to wake up.

"I do this for you all the time, dick,” says Pete when Patrick tells him this, trying for angry in a way that doesn’t really work in light of where his mouth was ten seconds before.   

“I— _ah_ —I meant—“ it’s the inscription wrapped around his finger that makes it this much better; but before he can explain that, Pete takes him in deep again.  Patrick’s brain goes on the fritz, and it’s all he can manage to bring a hand down to tug gently at Pete’s hair.  He stays blanketed in that early morning fuzz and lets it all wash over him: the warmth of the sun shining through the sheer curtains, the downy pillows beneath him, and Petepetepete being nothing but soft, gentle, caring until he brings Patrick over the edge.  

“C’mere,” says Patrick, as he gasps for breath, “C’mon, let me,” but Pete just takes Patrick’s face in his hands and kisses him lightly until Patrick’s eyes fall closed.

“You can owe me one later,” says Pete.  _We only have forever_ , he doesn’t add; Patrick hears it anyway and rolls it around in his brain as he drifts off again.  

~

 _going out for coffee back soon xo,_ reads Patrick’s phone when he fumbles for it upon waking a second time.  It’s half endearing, half pathetic that Pete chose to text him that when there’s a (hundred) perfectly serviceable pieces of paper around.  Then again, everyone knows how attached Pete is to his phone.  And he’s the one who’s getting their coffee, so maybe Patrick should—do something.  Get out of bed, mostly, because it’s not like he can make thank-you pancakes in their suite.  Or maybe he could just snapchat Pete, give him a bit of incentive to get back quicker.

Before Patrick can decide on a suitable course of action, Pete’s slipping into the room, two Starbucks cups in his hands.

“Hey,” he says, handing over Patrick’s drink.  

Patrick takes a long sip.  “Come back to bed.”

Pete pulls off his shorts and gladly snuggles up to Patrick.  “You got my text?”

“That you sent while you were still in this room?”  Patrick teases.

Pete goes for his distraction techniques, running his tongue over the edge of Patrick’s ear.

“You need more paper?” asks Patrick. “We can probably find some around.”

“I have everything I need,” says Pete.  Patrick doesn’t think he’s talking about paper.

~

There’s really nothing for them to do here, lounging in a suite on a sunny coast that holds no one else they know.  And hey, neither of them are terribly young anymore, so Patrick’s plan of staying in bed all day involves a little more TV than most.  They laugh their way through telenovelas that neither of them can fully understand and Pete plays along with every game show he can find while Patrick sits there thinking, this is mine, this is all mine.  

Eventually daytime TV gets boring, though, and Pete falls asleep against Patrick’s shoulder.  Patrick fishes out his Macbook to mess around in GarageBand.  An hour later, Pete reaches up and snags Patrick’s headphones.  “Just because we did this doesn’t mean our next album is going to be all love songs.”

Between the two of them, they’ve written, composed, played, and sung their love millions of times.  Patrick thinks he doesn’t need an album when he has a full discography.  

“I'll stop singing them when you’ll stop writing them,” he says instead.

Patrick’s laptop gets a bit displaced then because Pete decided long ago that his favorite way to kiss Patrick involved sitting in his lap, and then Patrick remembers that he owes Pete for earlier and pulls Pete’s boxers down so he can reach in and stroke him to hardness.  Their kiss gets a little more bitey and Pete’s breath hitches as he starts to thrust up into Patrick’s hand.  “Gonna fuck you in the shower later,” Patrick promises, “make you scream for it,” and then Pete comes with a gasp and a row of muttered expletives.

“Thirty minutes,” Pete says, when he’s come down, “gimme thirty minutes, and then.”

Patrick brushes a hand through Pete’s hair and absentmindedly hums the melody he’d been working on earlier.  

“Gotta get a song of what you sound like in bed,” Pete mutters.  “Be our fucking biggest hit yet.”  

“You write it, I’ll sing it,” Patrick says.  

Later, when he wanders in from the balcony, he finds a telltale sheet of paper on his pillow.

“I’m not actually singing this,” Patrick says, as he scans it.  “There is such thing as too much information.”

“Not when it comes to you and me.”  

Patrick thinks that maybe when they’re home again he’ll take the words and stick a simple melody and a beat behind them, mix the whole thing himself and put it on Pete’s iPod when he’s not looking.  It’ll make for a nice surprise.

~

Anyone who’s met Pete for five minutes would not be surprised by the fact that he’s one hell of a cuddler.  Patrick has surprised himself by being just as much of one.  Not with just anybody, though; while Pete can be at home draped over someone he met an hour ago, Patrick’s need is much more Pete-specific.

“Hey,” says Pete, who’s somehow on his Sidekick despite the fact that he’s wrapped around Patrick.  “Look at this.”

He sticks the phone in front of Patrick’s face and once Patrick’s eyes have uncrossed, he reads the headline: _Stump-Wentz Marriage Sham Uncovered!_

“That was quick,” Patrick says.

“It’s been three days,” Pete points out.  “Not as quick as Britney.”

“Mmm.”  Patrick doesn’t really care about what the press says, but sometimes the rumors are downright amusing. “So what gave us away?”

“Confidential sources saw Wentz out in the LA scene last night, dancing with an unknown partner,” reads Pete.  “Conspicuously absent were his wedding band and recent husband, Patrick Stump.”

Patrick laughs at that one.  “If you go back to LA again tonight, let slip that you only married me as a publicity stunt.”  

“I think maybe I’ll stay here,” says Pete.  “This is pretty nice, we should do it more often.”  

“I think it’s more of a once-in-a-lifetime deal,” Patrick says, shifting so he can take Pete’s phone away from him.

“We’re rockstars, we can do whatever.”  Pete doesn’t complain at the loss of his phone, just presses a kiss on Patrick’s jawline, then slides down to suck a mark on top of his collarbone.

“Fuck,” Patrick mutters, because he’s not sure whether arousal or sleep will win over.  It’s been a long day.

“Shh,” Pete mutters, coming up to find Patrick’s mouth with his own again.  They make out lazily until Pete twines his legs through Patrick’s so they can properly grind against each other.  Patrick comes with the tastescentsound of Pete all around him, feeling like a teenager sneaking time with the boyfriend that he’s not quite ready to tell his parents about.  

“I just showered,” says Patrick, but he’s too content to be the least bit upset.  

“Could take another one,” suggests Pete, with a wicked smile.

“Like you could handle it.”  Patrick gets up and grabs a washcloth instead, cleaning them both.  

“Love you,” Pete whispers, wrapping around Patrick again. 

“Yeah,” whispers Patrick in return.  “You too.”  

~

Patrick wakes up first the next morning, and checks his phone to learn that it’s just before six o’clock.  He wants to go back to sleep but his body’s not going to let him, so he gets dressed instead.  He sticks a note that says “down at the beach” under Pete's phone, then lets himself out of their room.  

The morning is still; Patrick’s the only one out so early.  He wanders the unspoiled shoreline and finds a couple of broken sand dollars that washed up with the high tide.  The water is a chill shock when he goes to clean them off, but it's invigorating.  He stands in the ocean and watches the sunrise and texts his mother stupid sentimental shit, then figures he should get back so Pete doesn’t get bored.  

As it turns out, he doesn’t need to worry about that: by the time he’s in sight of the resort again, he sees a familiar shape sitting by the water’s edge.  

“I can’t believe I married such a sap,” he says, when he sees that Pete’s sand doodles include one of their initials in a heart.  

Pete just grins at him, one of those full-body looks that still leaves Patrick feeling a little overwhelmed, and Patrick can’t believe they’re married for another set of reasons entirely.  “Breakfast?”

Patrick stops by their room to grab his sunglasses and wallet and they go into town, doing the tourist thing.  Pete orders for them in broken Spanish and after they finish their food they hit the shops, Pete debating every shitty souvenir they run across and Patrick flicking through endless racks of postcards.

“I don’t know when you think you’re going to have time to write those,” says Pete, “unless you’re good at multitasking.”

Patrick buys them anyway.  

~

Officially they’re taking a break from writing to enjoy their marriage, but life doesn’t actually work that way.  Patrick’s fiddling in GarageBand again because he can’t mediate his feelings in pages of stream-of-conscious ramblings.  He needs notes, beats, chords.  Pete has some emotion to let out too, judging by the pen tracing lines across Patrick’s shoulder.

“What are you doing,” says Patrick, nudging his headphones off one ear.

“Writing.”  Pete’s tongue is sticking out of his mouth a little the way it does when he really concentrates, so Patrick doesn’t doubt him.

“Paper, Pete,” he says.  “Or you’re gonna forget later and mess this up.”

“I’m sore,” Pete explains, throwing a look at his nearest notebook (on the dresser) before giving Patrick an entreating look.  “I’ll just take pictures.”

“No you won’t.”  They’d had the conversation regarding naked pictures not long after this thing between them had started, insofar as Patrick had said, _don’t. Ever_., and Pete had complied.

Pete shrugs and goes back to his words, and Patrick cranes his neck to try to see them.  “You’re not writing metaphors about the ocean right now, are you?” he asks suspicious.  For all Pete’s wordplay, sometimes he’s astoundingly obvious.

“Can’t control genius,” Pete replies.

By the time Patrick’s worked out the kinks in the melody he’s been fiddling with, Pete’s words sprawl across his back and curl around his side.  Patrick grabs one of Pete’s notebooks for him and lays down so Pete can copy the words into a more permanent medium.

“I’m wearing a shirt next time,” he informs Pete, but later, when he sees Pete’s words scrawled across his skin, he knows that’s a lie.

~

The strangest thing about this is how not-strange it all is:  everyone always talks about _commitment_ and _togetherness_ and Patrick can see the value in that.  But while a part of him wants to bask in the fact that the two of them are now forever-official, he knows their marriage hasn’t changed a thing.  He would still wake up to Pete in early mornings, spend lazy afternoons with him, sleep by his side every night.  This is the inevitable conclusion of their saga; Patrick has never been better than he is with Pete.  He’s pretty sure Pete feels the same.

It’s not just about the music (though that’s so damn important to both of them that it has to be mentioned), but the million other ways they fit together that go deeper than friendship, deeper even than the band.  And, well, Patrick doesn’t like to sound shallow, but Pete is also incredibly hot.

“You’re such a fucker,” Pete says, as Patrick lazily swirls his tongue around Pete’s navel.  “Fuck, c’mon, get back to it already.”  

Pete is less indolent than Patrick when he wakes up to Patrick’s mouth on him, but that doesn’t make him any less grateful.  Patrick holds Pete’s hips down so he can’t thrust, then tongues at the top of Pete’s cock.  

“God, fuck,” Pete moans, and that’s all the encouragement Patrick needs to take him all the way in.  He can feel Pete trying to obey Patrick’s steady grip as Patrick swallows around him  “Yesyesyes,” he practically whines, “Yes, gonna—“ and he comes down Patrick’s throat.  

Once Pete’s caught his breath, he insists on returning the favor—meaning he lets Patrick fuck his mouth until Patrick comes, choking out Pete’s name.  Patrick still feels as overwhelmed as he had the first time they’d done this.  

They’re both a mess, and they should probably get up and shower, but the bed is warm and comfortable and it’s not like they have any place to be.  Pete reaches over Patrick to grab his left hand and twines their fingers together.  With his other hand he fishes for his Sidekick.

“Let me,” says Pete, as if he knows what Patrick’s about to say (he probably does).  “Nothing bad, promise.  But close your eyes.”

Patrick obliges and lets Pete arrange him against the pillows; he’s not sure what he looks like right now, doesn’t know if he wants anyone else to see this.  Pete’s phone clicks, picture taken, and Patrick opens his eyes and makes a grab.  Pete moves it out of his reach.  “Check yours.”

He doesn't have any new texts, so Patrick unlocks his phone and opens up Twitter.  At the top of his timeline is an instagram link from Pete. It’s a simple photo; just their hands intertwined, wedding bands prominent against the backdrop of an out-of-focus hotel room. Pete’s captioned it with one word: _golden_.  


End file.
